


we're alive, we are loved

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: And Elizabeth and Francis are happy, F/M, Fix-It, Francis doesn't die, Post-Season/Series 02 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: (and we're worth it)Elizabeth, Francis, and happiness. 'Francis declares her to be as beautiful as her mother, but Elizabeth disagrees. Their daughter is more beautiful than she, for she is equal parts Francis and herself, and already she is so loved.'





	

When she hears urgent knocking on the front door of Trenwith, Elizabeth cannot help but fear the worst. The hour is late and with Francis still not yet returned from Wheal Grace, she has not been able to prevent herself from envisaging the most terrible of scenarios. Mining is a dangerous business, she knows this, and she cannot help but worry that this newest venture will ruin their family once and for all, not just fiscally. Francis is not Ross, her husband’s status meaning he is not used to working the same long, tedious hours as his men do, not accustomed to striving in unison for the desired goal. He may have proven himself more than capable of physical toil, but mining and working the fields are two distinct concepts entirely, one far more dangerous than the other.

She rises from her chair, Geoffrey Charles looking up at her movement. It is as if they have been frozen in place, and the knocking has brought them alive again. Her son really should have been abed hours ago, but with dread sitting heavy in her stomach she hadn’t thought herself capable of being without his presence, silent though he was. Verity, Aunt Agatha, her son, they all watch her as she leaves the room, their eyes following her as she makes her way through Trenwith to the door, the knocking only growing louder as she comes closer to it.

For a moment, she wonders if she should simply not answer, merely wait for the knocking to subside and the person on the other side of the door to go away. But despite the fear coursing through her veins, Elizabeth finds herself compelled to answer the knocking, reluctant though she is. It may be nothing, she tries to convince herself, although she is certain that shall not be the case. It is late, and any visitor to Trenwith at this hour is certain to have urgent, dire news.

Ross is standing before her when she finally manages to ease the door open, but the sorrow in his eyes is not what interests her, but something else entirely. Her heart drops as her eyes register what she is looking at. Her husband is being carried by two men she recognises as miners but cannot name, Francis’ body so limp in their hands she fears he must be dead. She can barely hear Ross when he speaks, can barely breathe, can only watch as the miners carry her husband up the stairs into his bedroom, Dr. Enys hurriedly following them, his medicine bag in hand.

The entrance to Trenwith is the only thing that keeps her upright, Elizabeth clutching at the wood desperately as Ross informs her of what has occurred. _Mine flooded…nearly drowned…still alive, but barely._ Her pained sob rings out through Trenwith, for she never thought her husband’s inability to swim could cause something like this.

“Dwight shall do all he can,” Ross assures her, before he too hurries up the stairs and disappears into Francis’ bedroom. Elizabeth finds herself rendered unable to move, the night air chilling her to her very core, Trenwith's interior exposed for all to see. She knows Dr. Enys to be more than capable, but what if he fails? What if Francis is taken from her, when they have only really been reconciled?

What worries her the most is the look in Ross’ eyes, for he looks as if Francis has been taken from them already, as if there is no chance her husband shall live.

\---

Elizabeth and Francis have been married for eight years and Geoffrey Charles has been an only child for seven, a period of time so extended that Elizabeth is more than aware many gossip about it, believing her to be incapable of providing Francis with another child, Geoffrey Charles with a sibling. She had been an only child herself, and she never wanted to subject her son to such a lonely fate. It had been her utmost desire to see Trenwith filled with children, with Poldarks, and through those children she’d hoped that she would come to love Francis as truly as he did her. There was no use, after all, on dwelling on what could never be, with a man she could never have.

Circumstances however, prevented her from fulfilling such a desire, with Francis growing hostile towards her and Elizabeth reciprocating in kind.

But now Francis has returned to her from the brink of death. He has somehow managed to fight what even Dr. Enys thought would ruin him, and her desire to bear him another child is stronger than ever. Since their return from Bodmin some years previous, the marked change in her husband had gone a long way in mending their fragile marriage, with Elizabeth eventually more than happy to once more welcome Francis to her bed. Still, despite her obvious willingness, Francis hadn’t pressured her, seemingly content enough to simply sleep beside her more times than he did bed her, his work in the fields and then in the mines exhausting the man Elizabeth had come to realise did so very much to see her and their son safe and secure. Making up for his past follies was a tedious task, but one Francis seemed determined to fulfil. But even the times they were man and wife, infrequent as they were, hadn’t seen a child take root once more inside her. Perhaps she had been rendered barren from all the years of isolation, their son doomed to loneliness because she hadn’t pressed his father for another child when she perhaps should have.

Geoffrey Charles’ birth all those years ago had ensured Elizabeth fulfilled her duty, provided her husband with an heir, the Poldarks with a continuation of the family name. But now it is not duty that makes Elizabeth long for another child, rather love. She wants to bear Francis a daughter with her brown curls, another son that has her father’s eyes. She wants to reaffirm the stability of their family, the love that has grown between them, but perhaps it is not meant to be, for month after month she bleeds, with tears accompanying the ache in her belly. Francis tries to comfort her by telling her that he is more than content with their son, that she shouldn’t worry herself over something that does not concern him at all.  His words do little to prevent her anguish, for everything else in their lives is as perfect as she could have ever desired. The mine is thriving, Francis has opted to spend some of their newfound revenue on material so she may have new dresses, and she is young enough still. Maybe not as young as she was when they first wed, but young enough and healthy besides. She should easily be able to carry another child, and her desire to fulfil such a wish is often so all-consuming that if she closes her eyes she can almost feel the weight of a babe in her arms. Geoffrey Charles is fast becoming a man, and she so misses the days when she would merely sit and watch him sleep, unaware of how terrible the world could be.

She tries to make polite enquiry about her situation with Dr. Enys, but the doctor is as much at a loss to explain her inability as she is. There is nothing she can do, besides continue to be patient and hope that her prayers come to fruition.  It is all rather infuriating, but Elizabeth tries to reconcile herself to what may be her fate, tries to convince herself than an alive husband, a thriving son... that is more than enough. It seems as though it shall have to be enough. 

Still, when she learns of Verity’s happy condition, she cannot help the tears that pool in her eyes. She isn’t as much jealous as Verity as she is mournful over her own empty womb, for she knows Verity’s desire to have a child has been just as strong as hers, knows that Verity herself has struggled to convince. She deserves a child, and Elizabeth is happy for her. She only wishes that she too were expecting, that two Poldarks could be born in the same year the way Francis and Ross were. Verity's belly grows, whilst herself remains as flat, as barren, as it has been for years now. Little Andrew is perfect, but the mere sight of him, tiny hands, soft skin, it is all too much for her and mere minutes after Verity arrives at Trenwith Elizabeth has to excuse herself, pleading illness. Francis finds her in her bedroom, weeping into her hands. Upon her dressing table are scattered pieces of half-finished needlework, new items for a baby she fears shall never come.

“Elizabeth,” Francis murmurs, crouching down to take her into his arms. She weeps freely into his jacket, the velvet soft under her skin, and Francis can only hold her, can only wait until the heartache passes.

“You’ll have another,” Verity tells her, clasping her hand tightly. The baby is asleep, their husbands sharing a drink, and Verity it seems, is as wise as ever. Elizabeth had thought she’d rid herself of any trace of her crying spell, but Verity is more perceptive than others. She swallows thickly, forces herself to nod as Verity speaks. “I understand your anguish, dear Elizabeth, better than anyone else ever could. You need to trust me. You and Francis are both young enough, younger than Andrew and I. You will have another child. You just need to stop punishing yourself for something you cannot control. It is meant to be, and so it shall occur.”

Perhaps it is being around little Andrew, perhaps it is Verity’s advice, perhaps it is the tenderness with which Francis touches her when he takes her to bed that week. Perhaps it is nothing but sheer luck.  Whatever it may be, Elizabeth is grateful nonetheless when she finds herself hurrying to her washbowl one morning. She takes care not to think too much of it, not until it is occurring repeatedly. And even then, she pays Dr. Enys a visit before she even thinks to share her thoughts with Francis, thankful that his early starts at the mine means he is not beside her when she finds herself emptying her stomach of its contents. The doctor confirms what she has hoped could be true, and the grin on his lips tells her he is as pleased by the news as she is.

When she tells him, Francis drops to his knees in Trenwith’s entrance hall, his hands pulling her close to him.

“You are pleased then, husband?” she teases him, grinning as he presses a hand to a belly that has not yet appeared. It will be strange, she thinks, to be pregnant again when it has been so long, but hopefully not too unpleasant.

Francis looks up at her, tears in his eyes. “Ecstatic,” he confirms, kissing her hands. “Delighted.” He rises to his feet, gathering her in his arms properly. “Grateful,” he tells her, before his lips descend on hers, Elizabeth more than welcoming his kiss. It does not matter that they are in the entrance hall, does not matter that anyone could walk in and see them, for this is one of the happiest days she has ever experienced, and she will not deprive herself of her husband’s embrace, not for anything, not for _anyone_.

\---

She bears a daughter in the early hours of a spring morning, the sun rising as the child makes her entrance into the world. Birthing her is more difficult than Elizabeth remember it to be, but she would not change anything, would not numb the pain whatsoever. She is more than worth the struggle, a daughter, another baby after so very long. Their daughter has dark hair where Geoffrey Charles’ was light, her fingers and toes so tiny, the weight of her in Elizabeth’s arms nearly non-existent. Francis declares her to be as beautiful as her mother, but Elizabeth disagrees. Their daughter is more beautiful than she, for she is equal parts Francis and herself, and already she is so loved.

They had decided on Geoffrey Charles’ name months before he was born, Francis adamant that they honour his family and give their son a Poldark name, Elizabeth more than happy to acquiesce to such a request. But for some reason they have not settled on a name for their daughter yet, perhaps because Elizabeth thought the baby would be another boy, a second son.  Francis though, it seems, has decided upon a name without her, but this time she finds she cannot agree with her husband.

“There are already two Elizabeth’s in this family, Francis,” she protests after he tells her of his desired choice of name, clasping his hand. “Don’t you think it would all get rather confusing if we added a third?”

“I wanted to name her after you,” he tells her. “We named Geoffrey Charles after my father, after my brother, but he is much your son as he is mine. You are the mother of my children, and you deserve something lasting, something permanent. Something that tells the world you are as much a Poldark as I am, as our children are... for you are.”

She smiles at him, a rush of affection for the man in front of her flooding her veins.

“Verity was named after our mother, and it wasn’t too confusing,” he declares, somewhat stubbornly. She almost laughs at the sight, for despite all his years at times her husband seems to revert back to how he had been in his youth, the cherished Poldark heir, and after his brother’s death, the only son. That is yet another thing he and Ross have in common, and that is perhaps why they have been and still are as close as brothers, having lost their own so young. The baby asleep beside her gives her hope that she in time can perhaps provide Geoffrey Charles with a brother, for whilst she knows a sister is more than good enough, she is also aware that there is something special that exists between brothers, something that cannot be easily replaced.

“Well,” she begins, her thumb tracing idle circles on the back of his hand, more callused than before. “I wanted to name her after you. _Frances_ ,” she sounds out, her free hand smoothing over her daughter’s mass of brown hair. She thinks it will perhaps lighten a little with time, for Geoffrey Charles’ hair is so very blond, just like his father’s. If she had wed Ross, their children would have had nothing but dark curls, and she cannot reconcile herself to the idea of her son with dark hair. “It's a lovely name for a little girl.”

“Elizabeth,” Francis begins, his voice strained with emotion. He looks directly at her, and she offers him a soft smile. How could she ever think she did not love this man? Even when he infuriated her, even when he brought their family to the brink of despair… his blue eyes are like the ocean, and she never wants to go a day without seeing them. “You would honour me so?”

She nods, leaning forward into his embrace. Her head resting on his shoulder, she presses a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. “You are her father, after all,” she says, laughing somewhat. “Why would I not?”

Francis smiles down at her, twirling one of her brown curls around his finger. “I do not deserve you,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to the top of her head. “I never have. But I confess, I don’t think I could ever let you go.”

When the baby wakes, she tells the maid to bring Geoffrey Charles into see his new sister. Sitting upright on the bed, Francis’ arm curled behind her and her husband peering down at their daughter, after Geoffrey Charles perches himself before them she has the pleasure of introducing him to his sister, Frances Elizabeth Poldark. The second name, she tells their son, his father had simply insisted on.

More babes shall come in time, of this she knows, but with one in her arms and a nearly grown son in front of her, her husband’s touch tender and his eyes filled with adoration, Elizabeth finds she cannot wish for anything more than this, than what she has already been gifted.

All those years ago, despite the pain, the anguish, the tragedy, she is certain she made the right choice in marrying Francis. Now, there is no such choice, for her husband’s gaze is the only one which warms her, his touch the only one she craves for. She loves him, and she is more than content to be his wife.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, why did Francis have to die?! WHY?!


End file.
